How To Get Taken Out To Dinner By Your Parents When You Are Broke

Pick a nice restaurant that you would only ever dream of going to. Make it moderately priced but still way above your price range. Bonus points if you’ve ever passed by and looked at the menu wistfully.

Pretend like you fit in there and go to nice restaurants all the time and don’t generally just eat mac n’ cheese in your pajamas.

Wear a nice, clean outfit. The only one in your closet not currently on your floor and in desperate need of dry cleaning.

Wonder what it’s like to eat fully clothed, not out of a Doctor Who bowl, and without 30 Rock on in the background.

Sit up straight.

Open the menu. Suggest a few appetizers. YOU’RE TOTALLY GETTING APPETIZERS.

Order wine. BY THE BOTTLE. WHAT? ARE YOU LIKE JAY-Z RIGHT NOW? WHO IS THIS BALLER?

Get something with meat in it because your bones are crying for protein.

Get the most expensive thing on the menu because you will never have the opportunity to do that ever again, you’re pretty sure.

Get some vegetable sides. When was the last time you had a cooked vegetable, my God.

Scarf the appetizers.

Swear you’re going to learn how to cook. Swear it, for real.

Joyously pour everyone some wine.

Lie to your mom about how often you cook for yourself and what you cook. “Oh, yeah I made lemon chicken last week” = “I ordered chicken nuggets last week!”

Lie to your mom about how often you order in. “Just like, sushi rolls sometimes, you know.”

Wonder if there’s free refills — on the shrimp tarts appetizer.

Pretend to listen to the specials. Already know a steak is in your future.

Order the steak. Advert eyes from side-eyeing father.

Drink more alcohol.

Lie about how much of your income you spend on alcohol.

Ask if anyone’s going to finish that last appetizer bit, while already casually putting it in your mouth.

Wonder if they’ll give you another round of bread that you can put discreetly in your purse.

Get your food. Pick up shiny, clean utensils and use them. Consider brushing your hair with the fork like you’re Ariel from The Little Mermaid.

Try to eat at a reasonable pace. 1) You want to savor everything and 2) You don’t want to seem like a castaway who just got picked up in a sea plane after seven years.

Eat too fast anyway.

Restrain yourself from licking your plate.

Wonder what that sauce was or what spices they cooked with. Remember that one time you put garlic in your macaroni and felt like freaking Emeril.

Give commentary to your parents like you’re on some kind of Food Network show and know what you’re talking about. They are not impressed.

Finish the wine.

When the waiter comes out to ask if you’re getting dessert, cut them off with a too loud, “Yes!”

Talk your parents into both something chocolate-y and something made out of bananas and rum raisin.

Eat both desserts yourself.

Love life.

Feel super full for the first time in a long time. Really promise yourself you’re gonna learn to cook.

Call for the check.

Pretend that you’re going to pay and then act overly surprised and thankful when your dad sets down his charge card.

Thank him numerous times and pretend you had no idea they were going to pay even though that’s totally what this has been about.

Regret that you never treat your body this good or appreciate the foodie world.

Feel sad that you’re probably gonna heat up a Pop Tart tomorrow and forget all about eating well.

Get the last bit of dessert — and your mom’s entree — wrapped up for you to take home.

Leave restaurant.

Feel a little guilty and sad about your usual state of financial affairs.

Get home. Eat some of the leftovers even though you swore you were saving them for lunch at work.